Wilted Rose
by Valdryfor
Summary: Draco Malfoy's ten-year marriage to Hermione Granger has reached its end, and he briefs her on the stipulations of their divorce as he prepares to run off with another woman. However, Hermione makes one simple request that tests his resolve and forces him to once again change his perspective of the world.


**A/N:** Based on the "Carried Wife" story/urban legend/circulated tale you've probably read different versions of across the web. Also slight AU. This has been sitting in my in-progress folder for three years now, and I've finally decided to finish it.

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He gazed at his wife dressing slowly in front of the bathroom mirror, the sight failing to stir his loins even as her bare skin glistened with moisture from her bath. Like the short lifespan of a rare flower, Hermione's beauty had come and gone over the years at a swift rate. She was bending over the sink with the posture of a woman past her prime. Wilted. Graceless. Lifeless. It was almost painful to watch day after day.

Of course, considering he had impulsively married Ron Weasley's widow ten years ago, he couldn't say he was surprised. She never did completely recover. He had known he could never be a replacement for her first husband, and in fact, that wasn't what he'd been aiming for. The funeral was held in the Muggle world, just five years after the Battle of Hogwarts. To his astonishment, he had received an invitation—undoubtedly from his old rival. And even more shocking, he had attended.

Draco Malfoy's presence had been met with varying reactions, from outrage to curiosity to grim acceptance. He hung back and away from the members of the Weasley family, only offering a short nod when his eyes met Harry Potter's. Everyone else's attention turned back to the inconsolable woman draped across the deceased's closed casket. Weeping and heavily pregnant, Hermione eventually allowed her sister-in-law to gently pry her away so her terrified two-year-old daughter could cling to her leg.

He had spent the entire service watching her. Sobered by the trauma of war when he was a teenager, Draco had lost most, if not all, of his animosity toward Hermione's heritage. Recalling his treatment of her during their school years conjured an emotion very close to guilt, but not quite. Remorse was something he still didn't understand in full. Yet, as he watched the now single mother sobbing in anguish, he acknowledged that he did feel something for her and her plight.

Pity.

It had taken him only a few minutes to reach the life-changing decision. Up to that point, he had remained a steadfast bachelor, putting all his time and energy into his work in an attempt to forget his family's past as Death Eaters. He still resided with his parents at Malfoy Manor, but he had been desperate to leave the place and the memories behind. If not for his mother's wretched pleading for him to live at home with them while he was still unmarried, he would have left long ago. A wife could be his ticket out.

Their courtship began several months after she gave birth to her son, much to the dismay of the entire Weasley clan. She had surprised him by agreeing to a relationship, although it could have been the resigned decision of a grieving widow. It mattered little to him since he saw this as his chance to repent for his previous actions. Moreover, she had been gorgeous at the time, and he'd allowed himself to admit to harboring a physical attraction to her throughout their years at Hogwarts.

Whenever she left her children in the care of her in-laws to meet with him at various rendezvous points (she absolutely, to that day, refused to go near his home), he ravished her supple body and wondered—with more than a little envy—if Ron Weasley had known what a lucky bastard he'd been for having her to himself all those years. The arrangement appeared to suit them both, and for a while the sexual intimacy was enough to fulfill their respective needs.

However, even he had recognized a stark change in her personality. It was a mere shade of what it once was, her characteristic stubbornness, hot temperance, and sharp tongue greatly diminished. A part of her had died alongside her late spouse and left someone almost unrecognizable. But again, that wasn't something he particularly cared about.

What did concern him was learning six months into their relationship that she and her children had moved in with the Potters since she had sold her marital home in Muggle London. He'd been hoping to simply move in with her (although he hadn't realized that she and her husband had gone to live amongst the Muggles) in order to avoid house-hunting and his mother's subsequent wailing. He hadn't told his parents about dating Hermione, but he would have to present her as his prospective bride in order for Narcissa to accept that he was going forward with his life. Fortunately, both his parents had greatly improved their tolerance for half-bloods and Muggle-borns since the Second Wizarding War.

His proposal had been uttered in the throes of passion one night in a private room of an upscale tavern. She had rejected him outright, snatched her clothes, and refused to see him for nearly three weeks. He'd spent this time recalculating his approach, and after what seemed like ages, they were finally married in a small but elegant ceremony. He moved his new family into a large, expensively furnished cottage located midpoint between Harry Potter's home and Malfoy Manor.

The children, Rose and Hugo, had taken to him well enough. They weren't the nuisances he'd thought they would be, and he dared say that he had developed some minimal degree of fondness for them. A fortunate development, too, since he did not plan on siring children of his own.

He never asked Hermione why she had agreed to marry him. He had assumed that their marriage was a way for her to fill a void inflicted by the untimely demise of the love of her life. It suited him fine. He had a wife, a pair of step-children, and his own household to provide for. He was content.

However, he did not anticipate his wife withering away throughout their years of matrimony. Diminished, wasted. Hermione had taken to treating him in an apathetic manner to complement his cold exterior, and her lack of zest for life soon manifested in her frail state. It reached a point where he no longer saw any benefit to fidelity, as her appeal had waned along with her luster.

So after nine years of marriage, Astoria came into the picture.

Fiery, beautiful, and seductive, his mistress took him to heights he had never before experienced. With her, he felt alive and fervent, better and different. Where Hermione was gaunt, Astoria was full. Where Hermione was practically dead, Astoria was passionate and full of life.

The affair continued for one year. Whether or not Hermione knew or suspected, he didn't care. Draco wished he had met Astoria sooner. Infatuation possessed them, and although he knew deep down that it balanced on a foundation of physical attraction, she completed him in ways he couldn't imagine his wife doing. He wanted Astoria for himself, always. And so he made a decision.

Leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, he imposed on Hermione's dressing to make the announcement.

"We're getting a divorce." Spoken matter-of-factly, leaving no room for argument. "I will sleep in the guest room for the next few days while I pack my things. You and the children can have the cottage. I'll handle the legal fees."

She froze and then rotated toward him in a slow movement, a dozen emotions grappling for acknowledgement in her eyes. "Did… you find someone else?"

"Yes. She and I are looking to marry as soon as possible, so your compliance is necessary."

Hermione moved her damp hair to the side, eyes lowering. "Right."

Draco had lived with this version of her long enough to expect her acquiescence. "Good that we have an understanding."

However, when he turned to leave, she called out to him.

"I just have one request, Draco."

She used his name. She rarely did that in recent years.

He glanced at her and raised one arrogant eyebrow in inquiry.

"Stay for another week and carry me across the threshold once a day."

Draco scowled, studying her for any signs of mental decline. "What the bloody hell kind of request is that?"

His choice of words seemed to wake some old ache in her, for the pain flashed across her face. And then she straightened, a shadow of her spine returning.

"A simple one. Each instance will take you ten seconds. Just for seven days. I'm not asking for more."

Although he still believed she had finally started to go mental, he agreed.

On the first day, they stood on the cobblestone walkway outside the cottage entrance. He scooped her up in his arms to make his impatient march back inside, irritation saturating his movements as he wondered what point this entailed. Once in the den, he all but dropped her on the spot and announced he was going out to meet with Astoria for lunch.

On the second day, they repeated the action. Draco let out an exaggerated sigh as he seized her by the waist and fought the urge to just throw her over his shoulder and stomp inside. He settled on the bridal-style carry, same as the previous day, and went to take the first step. Only this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned against him as he walked. The closeness took him aback more than it put him off, and he almost tossed her away once they entered the cottage in order to dispel the strange stirrings she prompted within him.

On the third day, he picked her up again and made a great show of holding her out as far from him as possible while he carried her inside. She held onto his shoulders for support and stared into his eyes. He found himself unable to break eye contact with her as she drew him in with her haunting irises. Before he realized it, they had made it to the den, and she was the one to hop out of his arms.

On the fourth day, he warily held out his hands for her. She settled into his grasp and hugged his neck again when he lifted her. Suddenly, he noticed just how light and delicate her body felt, as if a single act of force would break her in half. Without meaning to, he moved more carefully into the cottage. By this time, Rose and Hugo—now thirteen and ten years old respectively—had noticed the pattern, and they cheered from the den at the perceived closeness between their mother and stepfather. Draco set Hermione down and made a hasty exit.

On the fifth day, she was a bit late meeting him on the cobblestone. At first he seethed with annoyance, but it faded when he caught sight of her rounding the corner of the cottage, looking weaker than ever as she made her way toward him. He actually took a few steps to her to catch her before she collapsed. She buried her face in his neck this time, and he caught the familiar scent of her hair as he hoisted her up. Old recollections of intimacy darted across his mind, and rather than dismissing them, he hesitated on the walkway with her pressed against his chest. He swallowed as something in his core cracked. Unsettled by it, he carried her inside.

On the sixth day, she was already on the cobblestone when he strode there. Her bones almost jutted out through her skin, and her complexion had gone pallid. A small smile lit her eyes when she saw him approaching, but it only now occurred to him how their marriage had affected her. Memories of his neglect toward her surfaced, chasing away his illusions of her standoffish treatment of him, which may or may not have happened, now that he thought past his own conceit. Looking at what she'd become now, had she always been heading that way or had he had a hand in it? He tried not to think about it.

He said nothing as he reached for her. She remained equally silent as she drifted into his arms and melded against him when he lifted her up. She weighed almost nothing now, but her grip was still strong around his neck, and her skin was still warm against his. This time, when he carried her inside, he didn't stop in the den.

He took her all the way to the master bedroom where she'd slept alone for so many nights over the past year. Laying her on the bed, he kept his touches gentle as he leaned down to press a kiss to her lips. She reciprocated and weaved her fingers through his hair, pulling him down with her. He noticed a tremor in her hands, and he took them to leave kisses on her palms before climbing on top of her.

On the seventh and final day, he woke with his wife in his arms for the first time in a very long time. Making another decision, he rose without waking her and got dressed. Then, ensuring the children were also still asleep, he left the cottage long before the meeting time to meet with Astoria in her townhouse.

"You and I are finished," he told his mistress in his typical abrasive fashion. "My wife and I will be working things out, so this will be the last time I speak to you."

The beautiful woman's visage twisted with rage, but he cut her threats of reprisal short with one flick of his wand.

"Don't test me, Astoria," Draco rumbled, the power radiating in his aura. "You _will_ leave me and my family alone. Because if I find you causing trouble for us, I will destroy you."

The door slammed in his face, marking the last time he would ever have to see hers.

He returned to the cottage in time for the scheduled meeting with Hermione, but her absence from the cobblestone walkway brought an ill feeling to his chest. He waited five, ten, fifteen minutes. Once twenty passed, he went inside to look for her.

The world stopped the moment he stepped into the master bedroom.

Hermione lay on the bed, eyes closed, fully dressed in a white lace ensemble. Her children sat at her bedside, quietly crying as they held her motionless hand. A sick feeling of torment ripped beneath Draco's sternum.

He could tell from his position that her heart had stopped beating.

"What happened?" he asked in a controlled voice.

"An illness common in Muggles and Muggle-borns, it turns out. Magic can't heal it," Rose answered, not looking at him as she continued peering at her mother. "She tried to fight it for years. Asked us to hide it from you."

Draco realized his hands had balled into fists. "Why?"

"She thought you wouldn't care," Hugo piped up, voice cracking. "She wanted to look strong until the end. Like the hero she was. Not like some Mudblood you'd have scoffed at."

Draco tore his eyes away. "I would never have done that."

"Who cares? She's gone!" Hugo sobbed as he buried his face in her blankets. "We have to move in with our grandparents now."

"No," Draco said sharply, forcing his leaden legs forward. When he reached the side of the bed, he kneeled down next to Hermione and touched her shoulder. Cold. "I adopted you two, didn't I? She and I raised you together. You don't have to leave. You're still my children."

Overcome with emotion, Hugo threw his arms around Draco's waist and wept into his shirt.

Rose sniffled, still holding her mother's hand. "Thank you."

Draco used one arm to hold the boy while his free hand went to Hermione's face, now peaceful and free of pain and melancholy. A million regrets wove through his mind, coupled with anguish and self-loathing. While he contained his emotion on the surface, he felt the force of the turmoil inside. For ten years, he had looked through blind eyes, listened with deaf ears. Only now did he acknowledge the suffering he'd put her through, the way his actions had devalued her as a wife, a partner, and a human. She had lost her first husband. She hadn't gained a second one until the very end.

He had to live with this knowledge for the rest of his days. He gazed at her now, seeing his opponent, his ally, his lover, his paramour, his bride…

His wilted rose in eternal rest.


End file.
